


Sangah meets [WORLD]

by SchrodingersShanu



Series: Pomegranates in Delhi [1]
Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Dodo/Dior - Freeform, Dodo/Dior/Sangah, F/F, Humor, I don't know how to put this into words, M/M, Sangah-centric, a lil introspective angst here and there, but the chapters are teensy weensy so give it a go for some culture and giggles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26809984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SchrodingersShanu/pseuds/SchrodingersShanu
Summary: Sangah meets some characters in her college and falls for the two of them feat. established girlfriends hipster mullet Dodo and pink mean girl Dior.
Relationships: Chae Hyungwon/Im Changkyun | I.M, Chae Hyungwon/Im Changkyun | I.M/Lee Minhyuk, Chae Hyungwon/Lee Minhyuk, Im Changkyun | I.M/Lee Minhyuk, Lee Hoseok | Wonho/Son Hyunwoo | Shownu
Series: Pomegranates in Delhi [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955344
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Monologue Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For the overall fic, I would like you to really go hard on your “willing suspension of disbelief” here because the setting/culture is obviously not SK or the US. I am using names of real places but don’t worry too much about it. Just vibe and think that they live in a fictional land (which was colonized by the British for 200 years) with fictional culture. Enjoy, babies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1: Sangah meets [Dodo and Dior]  
> Sangah’s new friend Dodo is like a t-shirt, Dodo practices a Lovey-Dovey(?) Monologue about her gf for an audition, and other side stories.

_28 August 2017_

The table that Sangah’s fingers are tapping on is circular in shape, plastic in material, and milky grey in color. Its texture is rough and it's marble-patterned; lightest of grey shades with some white sprayed all over it.

The first time Sangah had seen it, she had thought of the galaxy for some reason.

The taps on the plastic are hardly as satisfying as they would have been on wood, but that could have been forgivable if it weren’t for the next thing that Sangah is going to describe.

The table is rickety because instead of four legs, it has only one in the center, a clear failure in construction, or maybe a success, depending on the purpose.

If you want a table that starts toppling down whenever you breathe a little harder near it, then it’s perfect for you. Ride into the sunset with your flawed - but _perfect for you!_ \- soulmate. You are made for each other. The world doesn’t need you. You don’t need the world. You were clearly made for the unconventional life.

But the thing is, it doesn't even bug Sangah _that_ much. What bugs her the most is that its one leg is made of pine wood.

Grey plastic?

_More power to you._

Pinewood?

_Even more power to you, girlfriend._

Grey plastic with pinewood?

_If there’s a god, it will prevent you from procreating further._

What kind of person would buy such a monstrosity of unmatching colors and materials as this?

The question is rhetorical because she already knows the answer.

The answer is 6 feet tall and goes by the name ‘Dodo’. Extremely beautiful but humble about her pretty privilege. Sleepy but surprisingly athletic. Sarcastic but giggly.

The answer’s voice is naturally low with a cadence that makes her sound stoned all the time. It’s very soothing to hear and it makes her less intimidating. The answer’s arms are long and have some red marks over them from continuous scratching. The answer likes saying mildly bitchy comments with a straight face. The answer looks like she will pack up her bags and give up all her worldly possessions to live in the Himalayas, away from humanity, any day now.

The answer’s cooked food's main striking point is cockroaches: either it's made _of_ them or it’s made _for_ them. The details evade Sangah like she wishes the taste would. It has been a week.

Sangah visibly winces.

She can still smell and taste it.

Presently, the answer is lying in front of Sangah on a couch. Head thrown back, red-stained lips mouthing the words on the sheet that she is holding in front of her kohl-rimmed eyes, one leg folded, and the other extended. There’s something of a renaissance painting about it. A pose that would have looked ridiculous on anyone, looks graceful, almost complimentary, on her long limbs.

_Pretty people are a disease._

Sangah’s gaze stays on her subject as she tilts her head to focus on the sound of dripping water coming from the kitchen.

“Your kitchen tap is still leaking?”

“I put a jug under it,” Dodo slurs lazily as she puts a finger inside a ripped hole near the neckline on her black t-shirt and starts scratching.

The t-shirt is a perfect summation of Dodo, Sangah thinks sagely.

First, it’s black in color which means it’s understated but everyone likes it, and, of course, it's evergreen. Like Dodo.

Secondly, it’s Dodo’s own band’s t-shirt. The band’s name, ‘Me and My Friends Hate Pingu’, displayed proudly in the center in a vintage font, daringly declares that she has opinions and she isn’t afraid to have a healthy discussion about it. A broad serif for the boldest of people. Like Dodo.

Dodo plays the gayest instrument of all time - the bass - in it.

The band is, _umm, like, sooo_ underground that you have to dig into the earth’s core to find them, and if you ask the band, even they don’t know about themselves. That’s how obscure and cool they are.

But, of course, you can also find them playing some show every weekend in one venue or another near their university campus.

At any given time, they are there, but also not. They are Schrodinger’s band. Come by sometime.

Thirdly, the black t-shirt is thin and has many holes in it. There are three on the area above Dodo’s waist, two in the lower back, one in the middle of her chest, and one on… They are like stars, uncountable and everywhere.

The biggest one is above the collarbones - the one that Dodo had just scratched through - which is understandable because those collarbones are _sharp_.

An important thing to note here is that the rips aren’t deliberate. Unlike her skinny black factory-made ripped jeans, these rips are not a part of the design, but from the daily wear and tear.

Clearly, this tee has seen things throughout the years.

It’s a veteran.

It’s a statement piece if you will.

It’s a piece that just exists and Sangah is clearly tripping if you won’t.

A piece so refreshing and bold that it has the potential to shake the complete foundations of the entire fashion industry. A piece that says, “You think inventing online shopping will steer me away from my lazy ways. Make me unloyal to my high-school clothes, thought that, did you? Well, you are wrong. I am going to continue to wear my clothes till they die, and then I am going to use their corpse as rags and mops, and you won’t let out a peek. Stay mad.”

Sangha likes to think that in their 2 weeks of close acquaintanceship, she knows Dodo well enough to conjecture that that’s how Dodo is with people as well. Making a few close friends here and there, and then sticking with them forever.

But, lastly, and most importantly, despite the clear degradation in quality, Dodo pulls off the shirt and makes it look like something fashionable. It says ‘broke’ on someone like Sangah but on Dodo, it says ‘Avant-Garde’.

And, that’s how Dodo is in life.

She breathes a little deeper, and the trees around her sway, flowers bloom, butterflies start fluttering, the clouds part, and the sun rises to peek at the beautiful scene that is Dodo breathing.

Sangah sighs loudly.

_Pretty. People. Who. Are. Unaware. Of. Their. Prettiness. Are. A. Disease._

Dodo, a black spot against an obnoxiously yellow couch, gets up from her seat and clears her throat, crinkling the loose sheets in her hand.

“Alright. I am ready.”

Sangah stops her tapping and nods in acknowledgment. “Go on.” She places her elbows on the table, careful not to put any weight on it, and links her hands. “Best of luck.”

The curl of Dodo’s lips is determined, her back straight as she steps forward to stand in front of a sitting Sangah. One hand holding the script, she brushes her mullet and adjusts her cap. Pinching her throat, she clears it once again.

Eyes on the ceiling, she begins.

"Imagine this: You are lying down in a dark room,” Dodo recites and Sangah imagines. “The room is small. It has a bed, a table, and a chair. On the wall opposite to the bed, there’s a corkboard and some shelves which you use for books and your new house plant.

In this room, your one side is pressing against your hard mattress as you stretch your arms, straining them beyond their physical limit to press a switch without actually getting up.

Tongue rolled behind your teeth - your arm, your hand, stretched to their full length - you barely make it as you brush the switch with your nails.

Like a bad omen, the brand new blue fairy lights wrapped around your board and shelves flicker once before turning fully on.

Their light catches in your eyes and you smile because in a city without stars and fireflies, you feel like you were gifted your own.

A high.

With the same slight smile, you go back to your Kindle but the fairy lights keep catching your eyes. How can they not? They are right in front of you. So blue and so glowy.”

Abruptly, Dodo bends down and looks Sangah in the eyes who leans back awkwardly as Dodo starts moving her irises quickly in all directions like a dizzy cartoon character.

The speed of it leaves Sangah extremely uncomfortable.

“Between the lights and the Kindle, your eyeballs are engaged in a fast game of table tennis, going to the periphery towards the fairy lights, and then coming back in the center to your Kindle.”

Dodo takes a step back again and unbends before taking a dramatic step to the right and puffing her chest.

“Trying to avoid looking at the tiny lights is as improbable a feat as trying to ignore global warming in an apartment that has a broken air conditioner but has ceiling-to-floor glass windows facing the east during this August’s heatwave.

It simply cannot be done.

It’s like trying to avoid a fly zooming by your ear if poor people didn’t get the earlier reference.

If you were a betting person, you would have made a bet on Buddha and Einstein, both alike, trying and failing to concentrate if they had been in your position. So, really, what can a mere mortal like you - with your shitty vision, the patience of something opposite of a frog and a brain prone to headaches - expect to achieve?

But, since the love of your nine lives, your girlfriend - your baby, your coochie coochie coo, your bubblegum pastry, your muffin croissant, your honey bunny, your cappuccino, your vanilla tea, your Hakka noodles - gifted them to you, you give it another minute.

Because that's what you do when you love someone very much.

You risk headaches.”

Dodo smiles and Sangah smiles back.

“It's love, honestly, and it has nothing to do with your girlfriend – your That-one weirdo-from-WWE-who-ate-worms, your the-monster-under-every-child’s-bed, your those-urban-legend black-eyed-kids, your shitty-remakes-of-old-classics, your soggy-socks, your unpaid-internships-that-promise-“exposure”-instead-of-stipend – being genuinely terrifying,” Dodo adds in the same breath.

Sangah brows furrow slightly. That was a big leap from the earlier paragraph.

“And even though she isn't there, she is omniscient.

_Second only to our overlord aliens._

Your fingers tremble with fear as you turn the fairy lights off, this time actually getting up from your bed, being regretful, and thus, showing your respect through this gesture.

Even before they go out, you throw yourself between the sheets, your eyes closed. Your strategy is something along the lines of ‘if my leg isn't out of the blanket, the monsters can't get me’.

Your heart is beating fast, your blood is sprinting through your veins, seemingly on its last lap,” Dodo says, words coming out faster now, clearly building up to something.

“You take a deep breath and start counting. If you pass 5 seconds, you would be golden or at least, that's what the prior statistics suggest.” Dodo lifts a finger. “One. Two. Thr-

Your phone pings with a text.

As you read her name - Dior with a heart emoji - your hope is snatched away from your hands like the ice-cream cone your girlfriend, Dior, snatched from a kid's hand last week.

You look at your phone, heart braced.

‘Hi!!!! Come to my place, I miss you already!!!!’ it says.

Innocuous, right?

WRONG!”

Dodo stamps her foot in emphasis, and Sangah, who had started leaning on the table absentmindedly, jerks back. Now completely lost as to where this monologue is going.

When Dodo had informed her that for her audition for the drama society, she was going to perform a self-written monologue about her girlfriend, Sangah, with her superficial knowledge of Dodo’s girlfriend but aware of how smitten Dodo looks when she talks about her, had assumed that it was going to be something lovey-dovey.

But, clearly, Sangah is a naive child of nature, unaware of the complexities of the adult world.

Sangah tunes back in, intrigued despite her confusion.

“You have to keep going because that’s life, so you swallow your spit but fear, like an obstinate tenant, stays thick at the back of your throat.

‘Baby, we were just together in the morning,’ you text back nervously.

‘BUT, I MISS YOUUUUUUUUUUU!’ she sends, all capital letters and affected neediness.

You stare at the screen with purposefully blank eyes. You can't afford to lose your calm when you need your brain at its full capacity to strategize.

Too caught up in thinking what the right answer should be, you don't realize that you have lost precious time.

Your phone screen lights up again.

‘You don't?’ it says, and then she uses the worst of attacks on you.”

Dodo points at her face and makes an exaggerated sad expression, the corner of her lips going down, chin and forehead wrinkling.

“She sends you a sad emoji.

The battle has been lost.

‘I do,’ you send.

And, even though it’s sent with the intention to stop the end of the world, it doesn’t mean that you don’t mean it.

Because you do.

You do love her. You love her to such an extent that someone like Changkyun, who unironically uses the word 'Chad', will unironically call you–

Wait, you got another text!

‘Come by in the evening?’ it says.

You hastily type ‘I will’ with ten heart emojis and send it.”

Dodo tilts her head up, eyes far away, shoulders squared and chest pushed out like Superman.

“A simp."

Assuming that it’s the end, Sangah starts clapping, confused but encouraging.

Dodo raises a regal palm, head still tilted up, face blank and uncreased like a new sheet, and says an ominous, "I am not done yet."

Sangah ventures an awkward cough. "I am sorry. Please, continue."

Dodo relaxes her posture and adjusts her thick black-framed glasses. She puts the sheet in front of her eyes and clears her throat for the third time.

"A simp.

A time leap.

Now imagine this: You knock on the door and a melodic nicotine voice says, 'Come in'.

You have entered the dungeon.

There's no going back now.

As you walk, your steps careful but curious, you see your girlfriend – the dungeon master – leaning against the opposite wall, her beautiful basilisk eyes staring at you like the helpless prey you are.

_Deadly._

_Deadly._

_Deadly._

‘Hey,’ you say.

‘I will take your intestines out, and choke you to death by wrapping them around your neck, you ungrateful tit,’ say her eyes.

She cocks her hips.

You tilt your head.

She arches her back and bites her lips, her eyes fluttering shut like a butterfly trying too hard to show off, while her aura that of a peacock prancing in a field on a rainy day, calling out for mating.

Even with the whole animal kingdom on display, you stand there confused until you look her up and down, and realize that you are being seduced.

 _Oh maybe, she isn’t omniscient after all,_ you think.

You kick the door shut behind you and with purposeful steps, you move towards her. You are a man stuck in a well in a developing country, and her short plaid skirt is a rope, pulling you up.

The rescue team is here. You’ll be saved.

You grab her waist and with a clearly fake ‘ _ah’_ she falls against your body. After a demanding kiss, you push her against the wall to look her up and down.

She turns her head, biting her lips, cheeks flushed a delicious red, doing her best to put up a shy girl act as if you haven’t been dating for two years and you don’t know how she is everything but shy.

Tentatively, she lifts her grey sweatshirt up but doesn’t take it off. Lets it stay tucked beneath her underarms.

You inhale in a sharp breath.

If you know her, she knows you too. She knows how much you get into her good girl act. She knows about all the manga screenshots on your phone, with blushy girls wearing short skirts, their oversized sweaters tucked over their breasts just like right now.

She isn’t even wearing anything underneath it!

If God wasn’t real, would this have happened? Huh? HUH? Checkmate, sheeple.

Now, Considering that your attraction towards girls was preceded by your attraction to tits, you forget everything because, look: tits.

TITS.

_Tits._

**Tits.**

T I T S.

You groan and grab her by the waist as if possessed. While you are kissing her, your fingertips roam around her navel, and her stomach starts fluttering. Your hands go beneath her skirt for a brief greeting and barely brush her inner thighs before they go up agai-”

“Wait! Wait. Wait. Wait. You are not auditioning to be the narrator of a porno. Are these details really necessary?” Sangah interrupts, flustered because there are so many details here that she could do without.

Hiding her red face with both her hands, Sangah peeks at Dodo from between her fingers.

“Yes. I am painting a picture here. Every NSFW brush stroke is necessary,” Dodo responds all businesslike.

Yes, that’s the problem. The picture is too visceral, too vivid and Sangah’s instinctively imaginative mind is suffering in ways that she doesn’t even want to acknowledge.

When Dodo had asked if she would be comfortable listening to her monologue because it had some adult bits that were integral to her piece and couldn’t be removed, Sangah hadn’t thought that she would straight up start reciting porn. In her naivety, she had assumed Dodo would probably just start describing breasts as a metaphor or something.

Wiggling in her plastic chair, feeling sweaty all of a sudden, Sangah closes the gap between her fingers. “Continue then.”

“Where was I?

_Oh yes._

You put your face between her breasts.”

“Oh my god,” Sangah groans, shrinking into herself.

“BETWEEN HER BREASTS.” Dodo clicks her tongue. “ _Please don’t interrupt_. And drop a gentle kiss there as a prelude to all the not so gentle things you are planning to do. A high.

Her moans are encouraging you when two arms come and push your face in her bosom.

A chilling sensation creeps down your spine as you realize that this was a trap. Your greatest ally - your girlfriend’s tits - has been used against you in this war of wills.”

Sangah lets her hands drop, face now red _and_ confused. There are so many twists here.

“‘Dodo,’ Dior says sweetly.

‘Yes?’ you reply, your voice muffled.

‘Are you enjoying your new decor?’

‘Very much.’ No hesitance, you still have a chance.

‘The fairy lights too.’

‘They are the best part.’

Shit! Rookie mistake, you have oversold it now.

Her arms push you further until your nose is smushed against her sternum.

_Dodo, age 20._

_She died doing what she loved._

_Suffocated by her girlfriend’s breasts._

_May she rest in peace._

‘Are you lying? You know I don’t like lies when they are not told for entertainment purposes,” she lilts, her voice creepily childish.

‘No. No. I am not lying,’ you say, but you are. Lying, that is.

You hate the new ‘decor’, which means you hate that now you have to care for a plant, stare at fairy lights, and bump your shin against the low wooden table that came with the apartment but has now been slightly repositioned. It’s like your table went: ‘Ha, new year, NEW ME. I am an actual instrument of Satan now.’ So, yes, you are very much lying.

She rubs the back of your head lovingly. You know the end is yonder.

‘You are lying.’

Her voice is flat just like your chance of living past this day.

You might as well die while telling the truth.

‘Yeah, I am sorry. The fairy lights are triggering my headaches.’

‘Oh honey, you should have just said so!’

You peek up. Maybe there’s a chance.

She draws your head back and you suck in a breath, panting.

She pouts, then gives you a fond smile.

She is hugging you now, and you hug her back, relieved, your lips pressed against her neck. Something feels off but you go with the moment.

A survivor, you are.

You are Rose and this was your Titanic.

You made some friends (your girlfriend’s breasts), you lost some friends (your girlfriend’s breasts) but maybe it wasn’t about all of that.

This was your hero’s journey and you have come out of it stronger and better, you are worthy now.

So what was your reward, you think, as your girlfriend pulls you in even more tightly. Your hands go down slowly and rest on her ass.

Every journey doesn’t have to have a reward, you think as you squeeze her lovely bottom, sometimes it’s about the journey itself.

Maybe your girlfriend is not the devil incarnate itself.

Just, you know, closely related.

‘I am not impressed by the lies though,’ she whispers in your ear.

You clench your eyes shut. The illusion has been broken. You aren’t Rose, you are the guy who Rose was cucking, as Changkyun would say.

She draws back her arms but you stay there with your eyes shut because your girlfriend isn’t cruel (technically) and like mother nature, she is merciful at times (technically), so you stay there, slumped against the wall, as she leaves the room after telling you to wait there while she comes up with a mean for your atonement.

Punishment is for your own good, she had once said while tapping your cheek fondly like every rich charming sociopath in sexy-movies-made-for-moms ever. After a pause, she had added, if someone else says that to you, that’s gaslighting.

You are not sure if Dior knows what ‘gaslighting’ actually means but she uses that term profusely, along with ‘homophobic dickwad’ and ‘heteronormative shit’, so she must have an inkling.

You are now standing against the wall, leaning on it because you are tired, your head hanging, pretending to reflect on your mistakes to appease your munchkin.

When she comes back, you fake sniff but it doesn’t matter. Your thousands of sacrificed sheeps are nothing to the caprice of this God.

She holds something up.

It’s the coupon book she made you last year on your birthday.

Oh no.

_No._

_No._

_No._

You hold your hands up, not even noticing their tremble. ‘Let’s not be so hasty, Dior.’

She narrows her eyes and opens the coupon book.

‘Baby, please!’

She looks up, head tilted in consideration.

A moment passes or is it infinity?

With a sigh, she shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to do this but I can’t reward such bad behavior.’

‘You don’t have to reward me but you also don’t have to punish me! Please, you can change this. Please.’

She lowers her head and then raises it again. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispers, eyes watery, voice genuinely apologetic. ‘I wish I had a choice.’

“You do have a-”

The words taper off with a choked sound as she rips three pages out of it and they come spiraling down like injured fighter planes.

This is a dark day.

Sometimes pain can’t be expressed in words, you understand this as you kneel down, words stuck in your throat while you collect the torn pages. Life would never be the same after this.

You look at the words on them even as they blur because the whole world is a tornado and you are the eye.

‘1 Massage.’

‘1 hour of actively listening to you talk about politics.’

‘1 hour of letting you bully me without bullying you back.’

You used to believe in dreams once.

A loud wind passes by and your ears ring with its howling, your body curling into itself.

You are indoors though, so maybe it’s your own heart screaming.

A soft hand with bazillion rings on it tilts your chin up. Your girlfriend looks at you tenderly, her long blond hair glowing around her like a halo. ‘I hope you can grow from this.’ She cups your cheek. ‘I do this for your own good.’ She leans down and kisses your cheek, the sensation burns you, it seeps through your skin and lights your nerves and you realize you were wrong.

Looking into her soft gaze, you realize, it wasn’t the table that was satanic.

She smiles at you and you smile back.”

Dodo, who had a hand on her heart, head hanging, voice soft, now looks up with a crazed smile on her face. “It was your girlfriend all along,” she finishes.

Okay, so that happened.

Sangah raises her palms in bafflement. Her fingers stretch out and expand, some straight and some crooked as she starts wiggling them, her body trying to express what she is feeling after listening to Dodo’s monologue as her brain goes static, her face a collage of different emotions.

_Now displaying Confusion and Utter Bafflement by Picasso._

Dodo takes her cap off while sitting down, ruffling her choppy black hair. "You are speechless because you like it so much, right?"

Sangah tilts her head, first left and then right, and raises a finger as if to say, ‘Give me a moment. I think that I am having a heart attack.’

Inhaling a deep breath along with the dust in Dodo’s room, she gathers her thoughts. "Okay, I have so many things to say but I'll start with a question."

Dodo crosses her legs and shrugs. "Sure."

"So, okay, setting how personal, PORNY, and long this monologue is for a 5-minute audition for a college theater group, wouldn't your girlfriend be pissed? I mean you basically called her Satan in the end and you," she raises a finger in accusation, “you talked about her breasts a lot!”

Dodo frowns. "Yeah, this is a monologue to myself and I do talk about them a lot to myself, what about it? And, what do you mean by ‘basically’? I did call her Satan."

Sangah flails her arms, looking like a baby hummingbird with her yellow sweater and crossed legs. "Exactly! She would be pissed with your exaggerations and how you have painted her here."

"Exaggerations?" Dodo says, tone shrill with offense. "This actually happened last week. It's literally verbatim. Half of it was role play, but you know, artistic license."

Sangah stills, arms hanging in the air. "Are you serious right now?"

"Very."

"So you think your girlfriend is the actual Satan?"

Dodo gives a smitten smile. "Yeah, she is." She sighs lovingly, her eyes zoning out before she shivers, delighted. "She is the best, my Beelzebub éclaire."

Sangah's head falls on the table with a thump, arms embracing her sides. "Okay, not really commenting on that." She raises her head, a twinkle of curiosity in her eyes. "I know that we just met and I don't know much about your girlfriend, but wouldn't she be pissed with you for 'exposing' her and all these private details about her, by which I mean the explicit stuff in which you objectify her a lot? I mean, the best thing that you said about her was that you like her breasts."

Dodo snorts before bursting into giggles. "What do you mean?" She manages to say while holding her stomach. Apparently, Sangah is a comedian. "You are so funny. Why would she be pissed when she was the one who added those things while she was proofreading it! She likes it when I objectify her."

"She has read it?" Sangah asks, wide-eyed. "And was okay with how you portrayed her?"

"Yeah." Dodo raises her eyes towards the ceiling again and then suddenly she shivers again. "She was actually quite turned on by it. Something about this increasing her street cred.”

Sangah flings her arms, realizing that this is actually happening. Her new friend is going to read a monologue about her girlfriend’s breasts in her audition. And Sangah, well, Sangah is going to be associated with the weirdo who read a monologue about her girlfriend’s breasts in her audition.

“The audition people might kick you out,” Sangah ventures, tone defeated because by now, she knows that little magical smile, the little twinkle in those sleepy eyes as Dodo moves towards her and puts a hand on Sangah's head, ruffling her hair. “They can’t. Hoseok _is_ one of the audition people. He sees _potential_ in everyone.”

Sangah gives a pained smile because she personally has been a victim of Hoseok’s potential-seeing vision and Dodo is right, she can probably just stand there and title that act of standing something like ‘A commentary on the bastardization of old Disney classics by the current Disney’ and Hoseok will see _potential_ in it.

“Best of luck then.”


	2. Sangah Meets [Sangah and Dodo]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Sangah is better than any scientist you know, How did Dodo and Sangah meet, Plath couldn't write "Chewing Gum", and other side stories

_1 September 2017_

When Sangah wakes up at 7 am on a Sunday to the sound of shrill chirping birds, her limbs light, her bones hollow as if her immediate predecessors are birds even if evolutionary biology might suggest otherwise. She feels like if she jumped from her balcony, she'd cheat gravity with her bird genes and fly to the moon.

She feels refreshed.

The thoughts of her dream brain are still running fast; sprinting and leaping in long strides so as to not get lost in the clutter of her conscious mind. Sangah, a courteous gentleman pirate, decides to take them in her metaphorical arms for a slow waltz or a fast salsa or-

No, Sangah baby, focus.

_...the greatest plague of science that is holding back innovation is this compulsive need for evidence. Why do you need reason, logic, and evidence? Isn’t hypothesizing enough? What happened to being a dreamer? Why aren’t feelings enough? Why can’t you just cross hybrid two corn plants and call it a day? Why do you have to study botany and fucking gene splicing and care about the symbiotic relationship between fungi and algae? What happened to just going at it and hoping for the best? Sangah just liked making diagrams in biology. She didn’t want all these other things! God, this is like thinking Geography as a subject would be about cool space stuff, and instead, it’s about fucking longitudes and latitudes and how the wind is made or something. Honestly, fuck empirical science. Fuck theory. Fucking botany. Sangah just wanted to make tasty and juicy corn, what is all this other clutter? Who cares about the gibberellin signal in plants? That can’t be put in the mouth! So why should Sangah care?_

_What do the scientists know that Sangah doesn’t?_

Sangah rolls to her side, shuts her eyes and goes back to sleep.

When Sangah wakes up again, the time is 11 AM. There’s a heaviness in her fingers as if below the knuckles, there’s no bone but steel. Her shoulder blades are burning, and the area around the back of her neck feels knotted. When she rolls to her front, she feels like her spine is twisted in the wrong direction. Her eyes refuse to open fully and when she tries again, she becomes acutely aware of the throbbing pain behind her left brow. She tries swallowing and finds it difficult.

She feels _not refreshed_.

Eyes half-closed, she drags herself out of the bed and starts jumping on the spot while punching the air.

She misses her roommate who used to stare at this as if she was witnessing a bikini-clad deer pole dancing in a zoo.

When her awareness is overtaken by her lack of stamina and all she can focus on is her fast heartbeat and huffy breaths, she stops.

She falls down on her bed, an arm over her eyes.

_Here’s to another day full of bitches, coke and chlamydia._

***

After brushing her teeth and showering, she pours herself some orange juice and looks at her phone. Upon finding no messages by a certain someone, she twists her mouth to the right. She is adorably quirky like that. And, then, as if to punish herself for hoping, she starts studying for her test on Phycology the next day.

It lasts two pages and twenty minutes.

She opens her phone, sends a much-casual-such-Heathcliff “Sup” to Dodo, and continues spending her day doing nothing at all while texting back and forth with Dodo.

***

At 19, Sangah is your typical adult-resembling entity/wolf/cat. When asked to describe herself, the first two things that come to her mind are ‘impulsive’ and ‘complete failure at sports’.

It's not her. It's her triangular feet. Yes, even her impulsiveness is rooted in her triangular feet. There's a logical, mathematical explanation behind it that she hasn't been able to prove yet. As far as conjectures go though, she knows that she has a good one.

Up until a month ago, these were the only two failures she had. Everything else? Perfection induced through wilful ignorance as God intended.

But now almost a month into the college, Sangah has realized that she is also a complete failure as far as socializing goes. So many days and classes have passed, and except for getting a few chuckles out of her classmates during orientation (where she said, “Hi, I am Sangah. I am a complete failure at sports. Good morning. Okay!” and sat down), she hasn't been able to make any kind of connection with anyone.

It could be because of her lack of interpersonal skills since she had attended only one school from kindergarten to senior secondary and thus, she never had to go up to someone and ask them what was their favorite color and if they actually understood the conflict in the middle east. On the flip side, it could also be the solemn aura of a Victorian widow that her resting face exhibits which is stopping her from hopping to a fast lifestyle.

This all changed two weeks ago when she had decided that enough was enough while getting up from the toilet seat and zipping up her jeans. Authoritative statements made in the toilet is what brings forth change - a fact that the spiritual community is hiding from the common sheep but Sangah knows because it was then that the universe ping-ponged the planets into an Aquarius-friendly alignment and changed her life for good.

There, scribbled on the bathroom door, she had spotted this fine piece of literature:

 _Sometimes, I feel like a piece of chewing gum,_   
_Fresh, supple, packed in plastic, made for bubbly bubbles._   
_And then you came,_   
_Picked me up from all the other flavours._

 _I felt special,_   
_Let you unwrap me with your stick-thin fingers._   
_You chewed me with your unimpressive technique,_   
_Even cows look more sensual while chewing the cud._

 _But, it didn’t matter,_   
_Because I was in love._   
_I let you take my juice out._   
_It was okay._   
_Because I was in love._

 _But, then I became nothing more than a habit._   
_No juice, only something hard and soft like a rabbit._

 _You spit me out on the sidewalk._   
_Didn’t even have the courtesy,_   
_to wrap me back up and throw me in a dumpster._

_Chewing gum._

_That’s what I was._

_Chewing gum._

_That’s how I felt._

_Chewing gum._

It was at the last ‘chewing gum’ that Sangah’s brain tinged, her neurons zinged, the stars twinked and Sangah let out a wheeze, clicked a picture and sent it to her childhood friend, Minji, with an equally poetic caption, “Dude! Lmao.”

Later in the day, she found herself standing on a stool, doing a dramatic reading of the same piece of literature while trying to maintain a straight face in front of the poetry society.

It was her first day there. Sangah hadn’t expected to be called upon to read “some of her works” when in reality, she had no works and had only joined because joining a society was mandatory.

In her naive folly, she had picked Poetry, assuming that she would just show her face for one day, and after that, she wouldn’t need to come back. Never in her wildest dreams did she think that a poetry society was something people were actually expected to participate in.

Like, come on, who cares? You got emotions? Oh boo fucking hoo, cry about it in your notes app like other normal Sangahs.

But, alas.

When called upon she had said, “Uh. I don’t have any _works_ yet,” and was met by a cheerful, “That’s okay! Next time then,” by a guy made of snow and smiles who had introduced himself as, “Hoseok, the president.”.

It was the hopeful and sincere “Next time” that made her panic and stutter out an “Actually, I do have something. Uh-” because there will be absolutely no next time. Not on Sangah’s watch! They’ll hear this poem and hopefully, wouldn’t mind not hearing from Sangah ever again.

With that game plan, she had stood with her phone and had tried her best to express her heart that’s like a chewing gum.

When she finished, the people around her broke into applause. Hoseok had shaken his head at her in pride and said, “Oh, you have so much _potential_. It’s so great to have you!”

And it was then that Sangah realised that she was surrounded by Arts and Humanities students.

Of course.

_“Potential.”_

Of course.

When she went back to her seat, smiling awkwardly at the people patting her back, she had seen Dodo for the first time.

She was the only person in the room who was staring at her as if Sangah told her, “Um, actually, Elon Musk’s idea about life on Mars is only feasible for rich people and if earth becomes inhabitable, the rich can flee but we’ll pretty much be abandoned. So, we’ll have to do something to fight climate change instead of simping for rich entrepreneurs who share the same taste in dank memes as 14-year-olds”.

Mild anger, confusion, and betrayal - that’s how she was looking at Sangah.

When Sangah sat, Dodo got up and sat beside her.

Quietly, she whispered, “Meet me outside when this ends.”

Sangah will confess that it sent a thrill down her spine. A friend! She was going to make an emo hipster friend!

The hour ended with a tall senior, “Hyunwoo, the treasurer”, reading out a….poem?

“Boiled,” he began, and perhaps, even ended.

Before Sangah could figure it out, Hoseok suddenly flushed red and started waving all of them out.

“I will see you all on Thursday. Go through the list of readings,” he threw at them in parting.

As requested, she had stood outside the room, leaning on the wall, a chocolate bar in her hand. She was physically and mentally ready to lure this stray person into being her friend.

It was during this moment of personal high and fantasies of not sitting alone while eating that someone had tapped her from behind. As if waiting for this moment since her birth, she had spun on her heels, ready to make a friend out of Dodo.

Instead of Dodo, it was a guy. Tall as a skyscraper, smiling wild like...other infrastructures. It was a skeevy grin, no doubt about it, but Sangah believed in not judging books by their covers and only by their smell. The guy smelled okay, so Sangah decided to give him a chance. The guy had asked her where the library was and she had politely pointed him in the right direction. Instead of going away, he had asked her name. And, okay, it's not so much as him asking her name, it was the way he had asked her name.

He had said, "What's your name?" and then licked his lips, his eyes going down to her chest. Defensive, she had crossed her arms and said she didn't know how giving her name would help him on his quest for the library. It was then that she got a whiff of strong Axe perfume, and she realized that she fucked up. Instead of going away, the guy continued standing there in front of her.

Sangah could move away, but not today, patriarchy. So, she decided to stand her ground.

And then there they were. Two soldiers of modern warfare, championing their individual school of thoughts. Sangah’s “Don’t objectify me while I exist?” versus the guy’s “HUR HUR HUR. IF NOT ASKING FOR SEX, THEN WHY BREATHE?”; both ideas radical and noble in their own right. Leading the discourse, they were engaged in an intense fight. Their weapon of choice? Standing.

Finally, a spindly hand had come between them, and the click of long fingers had snapped them out of their war of wills that Sangah was definitely winning.

The guy had looked aside with a look of irritation which quickly turned into one of panic as he caught a glimpse of Dodo. Scampering, he had bowed down and quickly ran away.

He ran so fast that Sangah could almost see a cartoonish cloud of dust behind him.

"You okay?" her tall and oh, so beautiful saviour had asked.

"Yeah, thanks." Unable to repress her curiosity, she had said, "He looked so scared of you. Are you in a gang?"

Dodo had laughed. "That's the first thing that came into your mind? A gang?"

Sangah had rubbed the back of her head, feeling sheepish. "No?"

She didn’t think, she had hoped. It would have increased Sangah’s street cred. Got her one step closer to bitches, coke and chlamydia.

"No, I am not in a gang. He was so scared because..." Dodo gave a long blink and then with a crinkled nose and nasly tone, she continued, "because well, my girlfriend has a reputation. He wasn't scared of me per se, he was scared of her."

Sangah took that in.

With her head angled up, sunlight caught in her eyes resembling youthful hope, she had asked in a breathy voice. "Is she in a gang?"

That was two weeks ago and as it turned out, Dior, Dodo's girlfriend, was _technically_ not in a gang.

When Sangah had asked why the "technically", she was informed that she wasn't in _a_ college gang because she was in all three of them as a consultant, arbitrator and mediator. How does that work, Dodo couldn't tell.

Over these two weeks, they met frequently and even exchanged numbers. Dodo is majoring in Mass Communication and Journalism; she is in her third year; her favorite color is white; her favorite show is Community; her favorite person in the whole wide world is no one; Dodo has been dating Dior for 2 years now; Dior's favorite colors are deep red and black and maybe blue, could also be yellow; Dodo’s best-friend is Changkyun who likes going to incel forums to feel better about himself.

Now Sangah can confidently say that she is an acquaintance that could be getting promoted to a friend anytime soon.

The only obstacle that they had encountered was Dodo accusing her of stealing her “poem” which Sangah didn’t even try to deny because she didn’t want to start their friendship on a foundation of lies (also, she didn’t want to be associated with that “poem”). When she explained her side, Dodo conceded easily and told her that while she had no idea how the “poem” got there, it wasn’t actually a poem, they were the lyrics that she wrote for her new song. The chorus was, “Chewing gum.” When Sangah innocently inquired how it could be the chorus when it only comes towards the end, Dodo had coolly replied that her band had an “experimental sound”.

Sangah is yet to hear it but she trusts Dodo’s face. It looks like a face that knows what it’s doing.

Sitting in her last lecture, she is running a montage of these moments. Her head is lolling to one side, the professor's monotonous drone cradling her to sleep. The pen that Sangah is writing notes with starts making wiggly lines. She is going to regret it when she’ll look for comprehensible notes the day before her exam but right now, it’s ce la vie. She is sweetly floating through that realm of half-sleep and pretty fantasies with trusting faces when her phone vibrates.

**Dodo: You free around 6?**

Covertly, Sangah opens the phone below her desk and notices the professor giving her a look before rolling her eyes and moving her gaze away.

**Yeah.**

**Wanna hangout with me and baby Satan?**

**Baby satan?**

**Dior.**

Oh. Actually, Sangah wants to. Really, really wants to. But, she also doesn’t for the reasons that she won't confess. Regardless, the answer won’t change.

**Yes.**

**Great. Dropping you the location of her place. Come around 6 and bring a pack of smokes.**

**See ya.**

***

“You are on time,” Dodo says while looking at her watch. “What a good kid!”

“Shut up.” Sangah throws the pack of smokes in the air. Dodo’s eyes follow its trajectory, mouth opening wide as she tries to catch it, and failing spectacularly.

She grunts, sounding exactly like Sangah’s grandmother, and picks it up from the ground. She turns the package back and forth. She gives Sangah an obviously fake smile as she throws an arm over her shoulders and leads her through the corridor.

“Good choice. Thanks. You smoke?”

Sangah shakes her head.

“Yeah, I gathered.”

Sangah spins on her feet and acts like she is going to walk out. “Bye.”

The laugh that Dodo gives as she drags her back has become too familiar to Sangah. It’s so joyful. Something that comes from the heart and goes to the heart. It’s effusive. Contagious. Light.

But, most dangerously, it’s addicting.

“So, any tips before I meet your girlfriend?” Sangah asks. Dodo stops in front of apartment number 309.

Dodo shrugs. She takes a key out of her back pocket and jams it into the lock. “She is very friendly. Don’t worry.” The door opens silently. “But, maybe, refer to her as ‘Dior’ instead of calling her my girlfriend.”

Sangah nods back, feeling embarrassed. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Dodo pats her back. “You’ll do great.”

“Famous last words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU CAN'T KILL THIS FIC EVEN IF YOU TRIED 
> 
> If you like the humor in this fic, please feel free to check out my [hyunghyuk text au](https://twitter.com/crankyminwon/status/1328391380410851329) on twitter and this finished 9k [hyunghyuk fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509939) that comes with a tiny cute sequel. 
> 
> Twitter: [@crankyminwon](https://twitter.com/crankyminwon)  
> Curious Cat (for the mysterious anonymous ones): [MellowMinhyuk](https://curiouscat.me/MellowMinhyuk)

**Author's Note:**

> (Lots of, bigs of, huges of, gigantics of thank you to Eugene (Geniewish) for editing it and basically if you didn't get a headache while reading the fic, it's because of her.) 
> 
> Woah. This is so crazy to me? Like, who wrote this and why?  
> But, believe it or not, this is the best part of the whole fic, so like...
> 
> I wear love really well, so give me your kudos, comments, shares, and CCs anyway? :))))) Peace, babies!
> 
> Twitter: [@crankyminwon](https://twitter.com/crankyminwon)  
> CC: [MellowMinhyuk](https://curiouscat.me/MellowMinhyuk)


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